Haemophilia
by girlfromgraz
Summary: The newest whelp of the Companions comes home one night after an exhaustive battle, oblivious that she's been infected with a disease that will turn her into a vampire if left untreated. But the noses of werewolves are finer than those of ordinary men...


It was late when her weary steps finally brought the Dragonborn up to the front gate of Jorrvaskr. She raised her hand, bloodied from battle, and pushed the heavy door open. Finally at home.

The fire in the main hall had burnt low. Remains from supper littered the long table, but the huge room was empty. Her shield-siblings all had retired for the night. Wearily, she crossed the main hall and made her way down the stairs to the sleeping quarters. As she made her way across the dimly lit hallway and towards the dorm, she first let her sword, then the pieces of her armour drop in her wake. Farkas might scold her for that in the morning, but she was way too exhausted to care.

In the job's initial description, it had sounded like an easy one, perfectly suitable for a whelp of the Companions. But the men and women that had inhabited Shriekwind Bastion had proven more formidable foes than expected. They had attacked her from all angles and had pushed her hard, much more than the ordinary bandits she had supposed them to be. Only after the last of her foes had been slain had she realised that one of them had managed to wound her. It was a nasty gash down her side, deep enough to show the flesh underneath the skin. She gulped down one of the healing potions she carried, but the flesh would not react to the stimulation of the agent. She emptied another bottle, but the severed fibres of her muscles did not start to knit themselves together again. In the end, she ran out of healing potions and still, the skin around the edges looked… wrong.

The way back to Whiterun had proven to be a challenge she had not been sure she might pass. Slowed by the nasty, bleeding wound, it had taken her twice the time she had expected to travel the distance. The sun had set long before the walls of the proud city had risen in front of her. But, fearing that in her weakened state a night in the wilds might seal her fate, she had struggled on. It was long after midnight when she had finally dragged her body through the gates of the city.

As she fell into her bed in Jorrvaskr, relief flooded her beaten body. The bleeding of her injury had slowed and she was way too exhausted to worry about it then. The morrow would bring her shield-siblings, skilled hands to dress the wound, and hot food.

Aela and Vilkas returned from their job some time before dawn. Both of them were tired from the fight and the long walk back to Jorrvaskr. Content to finally be home and looking forward to a good, long sleep, Vilkas literally fell over the armour that lay right in the middle of the dimly lit hallway.

"Ouch! Bloody whelps!" He kicked the heap of leather and steel out of his way. "Who dropped that here?"

Aela did not give his outburst too much thought and continued her way to her room. But as she passed the whelps' dorm, a scent so sharp and reeking caught her keen nose it sent all her senses off screaming in alarm. She froze, her body tense, as she peered into the dark dorm. A low growl escaped her throat.

She felt Vilkas' presence somewhere behind her, going from relaxed to alert within a moment. "What?" he whispered, Aela's sudden attentiveness seeping over to him.

He came to stand next to her, the dagger he always carried already in his hand. Aela jerked her head towards the dark room. "Smell."

"Vampires," Vilkas growled, his face twisted in disgust.

Aela hissed, agreeing with her shield-brother's revulsion. Following Vilkas' example, she drew her own dagger from a sheath hidden in her boot. Inhaling deeply, she let all the odours the air carried wash over her. The familiar smells of her home, her shield-siblings, everything shrank back behind the stench of blood and sickness. It made her hairs stand on end and her nails itch. "Only one," she signalled to her shield-brother as she sank into a low crouch, waiting for Vilkas' brief nod. Then, she smoothly stepped into the dark room.

To her highly sensitive hearing, the room was filled with the sounds of sleeping people. One sniff told her Njada was in the bed to her left, sleeping peacefully. In the bed opposite, Ria tossed in her dream.

Vilkas stepped past Aela, following the stench of spoiled blood further into the room. To their wolfish senses, the reek shone like a beacon in the dark.

"It's Falka." Her shield-brother took another deep breath. "Not turned yet," he commented upon exhaling, his voice an almost inaudibly low growl. "Cover me." He sheathed his dagger and moved up to where their newest charge slept. Pulling off his gauntlets, he sat down on the edge of her bed. Aela's eyes stayed glued to the sleeping form on the bed as Vilkas' hand ghosted over Falka's cheek. Methodically, Vilkas cupped her face with his hand and pulled her eyelid up with his thumb. Tenderly, his fingers pushed aside her lips so that her teeth were bared.

"How far?"

Vilkas shook his head, whispering, "Not sure. It's too dark in here."

"Get her to my room."

And without any further comment, Vilkas gathered Falka, sheets and limbs and all, in his arms and followed Aela out of the dorm. He staggered under the revolting fetor of his burden, fighting hard against the gagging reflex of his body.

Aela was waiting for him in her room, first holding the door open for Vilkas to pass through, then waving him towards her bed to put his burden down in. While she had waited for him, Aela had lit some candles. Now, she closely watched them as Vilkas set Falka's limp body down on the mattress. The unconscious woman moved and turned in her sleep, but her relocation had obviously not stirred her from the deep slumber.

A retching noise made Aela look up from the sleeping form. Vilkas, his arms outstretched as far as he could, and smeared with blood, panted heavily. His face was distorted with revulsion and disgust as he stared at the poisoned blood on his arms. The sight alone made Aela gag. The muscles on his arms and along his neck trembled and clenched erratically as he fought against his inner drive to change.

"Vilkas," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't!" Aela stepped up in front of him, forcing his gaze away from his bloodied hands. _Bloodied by vampire blood_, her mind screamed. She clamped it down. Instead of fleeing the scene, she shook Vilkas by his shoulders, all the time trying to breathe through her mouth. The stench was agonizing. Behind her, Falka mumbled in her sleep. And Vilkas was about to lose his fight against the wolf. She slapped him on his face. "Vilkas! Don't!"

"Can't." The man gasped. "Stench."

The smell! She threw the door to her chamber open, pulling her shield-brother out into the main hall where the stench was slightly less choking. She whirled around to face Vilkas, stabilize his staggering form.

"Get. Smell. Out," he managed.

"Daub it," she countered and started pulling off his armour. His breastplate went on the floor, followed by his greaves. Aela pulled at his shirt, frantically trying to raise a cloud of Vilkas' own smell around him, hoping the sweaty and clingy linen might clog the stench of vampires a bit. If only Vilkas would stop fighting _her_ instead of the wolf!

"Inhale," she commanded, covering his head with his shirt.

He obeyed. And finally, Vilkas regained control over his body. His spasmodic movements grew more coordinated, his breathing slowed and partially returned to normal.

Aela stepped back, wiping her hair out of her face. And a new wave of the stench of soiled blood raced up her nostrils. She gagged. Her knees buckled and she lost the fight against her stomach.

And then, a voice boomed through the hall. "What in Skyrim are you up to?"

Farkas. The noises must have woken him. And what a sight they must give, Aela realized. She shifted her kneeling position so Vilkas was no longer shielding her from his brother. Farkas was standing in the small room between his and his brother's chambers, the look on his face one of utter disbelief. Vilkas, his body finally under control again, pulled his head out from under his shirt. "Farkas," he gasped.

Aela pushed her hair out of her face, this time holding her breath as she did so.

Farkas raised his hands. "You know – I really don't want to know. Keep it down, will you?" And with that, he turned around and retired to his room.

Vilkas and Aela shared a look. Vilkas shrugged and dismissed his brother's comment.

"Better?"

He nodded, still breathing heavily and reeling slightly. But the frantic drive from before had abated. "Let's see to Falka."

Aela raised one eyebrow. "You up to it?"

"Aye," Vilkas assured her and brushed past her, making his way back towards Aela's room.

Aela followed a few steps behind her shield-brother. Inside the room, she found Vilkas already sitting at the edge of the bed. Once again, he carefully pushed Falka's lips away to bare her teeth. With his free hand, he was pressing his shirt over mouth and nose.

"She hasn't fully transformed yet," his muffled voice informed her.

"How long do you think since—"

Vilkas shook his head. "I'm not sure. More than one day, hopefully less than two." Gently, he lifted Falka's eyelid in order to check her pupil's reaction to the light. "Nothing yet."

"Should we turn her?"

"No!" His eyes shot up to meet hers. "No," he repeated vehemently. Then he returned his attention to the sick woman in front of him. His hand brushed over her brow, briefly and gently sliding a strand of her hair between two fingers. "We should be able to cure her."

"What about her wound?"

Her shield-brother shifted his focus to the nasty gash in Falka's side, hissing unintelligibly. Gently, he pulled the sheets Falka had draped around herself away to better inspect the wound. And started cursing. The severed fibres of the muscle were clearly visible, and black veins were showing underneath the skin around the gaping injury.

"What do you need?"

"Haemophilia first," Vilkas decided. "The curing potions. Top shelf. Then some healing potions, for this." He gestured at the ugly wound.

"Here." Aela's hand brushed his shoulder, placing two healing potions into his hand before she left. When she returned moments later, Vilkas had already cut away the torn clothing around the impairment, inspecting the damage.

"It looks worse than it is."

Aela placed the potions on the table beside the bed. "Should I wake Tilma? So she can clean it?"

Vilkas shook his head. "Let the poor woman sleep. Better help me get her drink the potions." Ripping open the seal of one of the bottles, he cupped Falka's head. "Falka," he gently called her. "Wake up." He stroke her cheek, following the lines of her tattoo with his thumb.

The woman on the bed shifted, but did not wake.

"Come one, wake up."

But Falka only shrank away from him. Her eyes were shut and she clearly was asleep, yet her body shied away from the threatening shadow. Her features twisted into an ugly grimace.

"She's slipping," Aela observed.

"I know." The ring of his voice made clear how deeply worried Vilkas was for their newest shield-sister.

"Get her to drink it, now, or we won't have to discuss turning her," Aela snapped, just as much distressed as he was. "She won't wake until—"

Not bothering to finish her sentence, she pushed Vilkas out of the way and sat down on the bedside herself. She then circled her arms around Falka's shoulders and pulled the writhing woman into a sitting position. One jerk of Aela's head, and Vilkas was sitting behind Falka, taking the half-asleep form from Aela. Once they had her propped against Vilkas, Aela took the potion from Vilkas. Steadying Falka's head with one hand, Aela placed the open bottle to her lips. And that was when the trouble started.

Falka's subconsciousness must have caught a whiff of the potion. She started struggling and thrashing, banging her head against Vilkas. He locked her in his arms, pinning Falka's own arms to her sides. Never waking, Falka's body writhed in its prison. Aela knelt on her thrashing feet, intent on forcing the potion into Falka's mouth. Falka threw her head from side to side, making Vilkas grunt in pain. And then, her lungs filled with air and she opened her mouth to give an agonizing screech, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to her own voice.

The two Companions shared a horrified look across their fighting patient.

"Quickly! Steady her head!"

She gripped Falka's head with one hand, shoving it against Vilkas shoulder. Locked between Aela's strong arm and Vilkas' body, Falka could no longer escape them. She screamed again, and Aela seized the opportunity to pour the potion down her patient's throat. Falka started coughing and spitting, but Aela forced the thrashing woman to finally swallow the potion.

"Ysmir's balls!" Farkas' voice cut across the room. "What are you doing?"

Falka convulsed one last time, then the potion was down her throat. Aela let herself fall back on her haunches. Vilkas released his iron grip on Falka and slumped back against the head piece of the bed, taking the empty bottle from Aela.

After her eerie display, Falka had slipped back into unconsciousness. Her body went limp and collapsed in on itself.

"What's going on?" a sleepy voice from the hallway inquired.

"That's what I'd like to know, too," Farkas agreed.

From the far end of the bed, Vilkas threw the empty bottle to his brother.

Farkas caught it and held it into the light. "Porphyria?" He wrinkled his brow.

Vilkas only nodded, for the moment too exhausted to speak.

Behind Farkas, Athis and Ria crowded the small space outside the room.

"Farkas? What is it?" Ria asked. Just like Athis and Farkas, Falka's inhuman scream had awoken her. Sleep still fogged her mind.

Then, she saw the three people on Aela's bed, with Vilkas and Falka both only half-clad. Ria's eyes grew rounder and rounder as she took in the rest of the scene. Blood was smeared over Falka's partially bared torso and feet. Vilkas arms were dark from dried blood as well, and a ruffed-up Aela was kneeling on the other end of the bed. A look of disgust spread over Ria's face. For one brief moment, something else flashed there, too, but she masked it almost instantly. "You woke us for this? She's not even conscious, you sick bast—"

"Haemophilia," both Vilkas and Aela interrupted her.

"Yeah, I can see th—"

Farkas threw the empty potion bottle at her. "How many," he interrupted Ria's snarky reply, "did you give her?"

"Not enough," Vilkas shook his head, raising himself from his slouching position. "She needs at least one more."

The content of the second bottle went down Falka's throat, and this time she did not fight it. Farkas sent Athis off to fetch water and linen for Falka's wound. He wanted Ria to inform the Harbinger of what had happened, but the young woman flat-out refused and instead returned to her bed.

Farkas sighed. "You know why she's upset?" he asked when the three members of the Inner Circle were alone again.

His brother chose to ignore the question, instead focussing his attention on his charge. Supporting Falka's body, her head resting on his shoulder, he used his free hand to again check her canines.

"You will have to face her, eventually," came Farkas' voice from the door.

Vilkas let go of Falka's lip and raised her eyelid instead, totally disregarding his brother. "Can you see anything?" he asked Aela.

The woman moved closer and diligently observed Falka herself. "No."

"You know Ria will hate her for that," Farkas insisted. "Poor girl."

"Can't help it," Vilkas mumbled.

"Why is it they always fall for you, anyhow?"

"They don't," Vilkas objected, half-heartedly. "I befriend them; then they see you and off" – he yawned – "they go." The warmth of the room, the soft bed, and Falka's warm body against his made the weight of the long day bear down on him. He was tired.

Farkas opened his mouth to reply, but Athis returned with the water and dressings. So, instead of further elaborating, Farkas simply shook his head in denial and instructed Athis where to place the water. He received the bandages from him, then dismissed the other man with a short nod.

Aela had taken Falka's sleeping form from Vilkas so he could disentangle his limbs from Falka's and get up.

Farkas watched them, yawning. "You've got it?"

"Aye." Vilkas stretched, staring at the dark, dried blood on his arms.

Farkas handed him the wrappings. "I'll inform Kodlak everything's fine, then. Good work, both of you." He clapped Vilkas on the back. "Good night."

Vilkas grunted a reply.

"The black's already receding," Aela observed, dabbing at Falka's wound with a finger. "We really did it."

Vilkas bent down to inspect the injury.

"Do you think you can take it from here?" A yawn split Aela's face.

Vilkas nodded.

"Perfect. And— Good job." She placed a peck on his cheek. "Good night." And after a friendly clap on his shoulder, she turned and left.

"Yeah. You too."

Vilkas heard the door to Skjor's room open and close, then silence spread. He set to cleaning Falka's wound. Then, he made her swallow three healing potions. This time, she did not resist. After she had downed the last drop of the bitter liquid, Vilkas was relieved to see that the wound had already started to heal. Her body was forcing the last of the poison out of her system, covering her in sweat. Unthinking, Vilkas wiped her face and arms with the cloth in his hands. Pieces of dead tissue protruded outwards from her wound. The muscle fibres around her wound had already started to respond to the stimuli and were knitting themselves together again.

By the time he was finished, the first birds had started singing outside and the sky already showed a faint blue colour. Soon, Tilma would start her daily routine by making breakfast and his shield-siblings would fill the hall with life again. But for the moment, night still lasted.

He settled back in a chair, his gaze never leaving the sleeping Redguard on Aela's bed.

He sighed. "That was a close call," he told her sleeping form. "You really need somebody to watch your back, Red."


End file.
